convinced of Mr. Bickerstaff's ignorance. He replied, I am a poor ignorant fellow, bred to a mean trade, yet I have sense enough to know, that all pretences of foretelling by astrology are deceits, for this manifest reason, because the wise and the learned, who can only judge whether there be any truth in this science, do all unanimously agree to laugh at and despise it; and none but the poor ignorant vulgar give it any credit, and that only upon the word of such silly wretches as I and my fellows, who can hardly write or read. I then asked him why he had not calculated his own nativity, to see whether it agreed with Bickerstaff's prediction? At which he shook his head, and said, Oh! sir, this is no time for jesting, but for repenting those fooleries, as I do now from the very bottom of my heart. By what I can gather from you, said I, the observations and predictions you printed with your almanacs, were mere impositions on the people. He replied, If it were otherwise, I should have the less to answer for. We have a common form for all those things; as to foretelling the weather, we never meddle with that, but leave it to the printer, who takes it out of any old almanac, as he thinks fit; the rest was my own invention to make my almanac sell, having a wife to maintain, and no other way to get my bread; for mending old shoes is a poor livelihood; and (added he, sighing) I wish I may not have done. more mischief by my physic than my astrology; though I had some good receipts from my grandmother, and my own compositions were such, as I thought, could at least do no hurt. I had some other discourse with him, which now I cannot call to mind; and I fear I have already tired your lordship. I shall only add one circumstance, that on his death-bed he declared himself a nonconformist, and had a fanatic preacher to be his spiritual guide. After half an hour's conversation I took my leave, being almost stifled by the closeness of the room. I imagined he could not hold out long, and therefore withdrew to a little coffee-house hard by, leaving a servant at the house with orders to come immediately, and tell me, as near as he could, the minute when Partridge should expire, which was not above two hours after; when, looking upon my watch, I found it to be above five minutes after seven by which it is clear that Mr. Bickerstaff was mistaken almost four hours in his calculation. In the other circumstances he was exact enough. But whether he hath not been the cause of this poor man's death, as well as the predictor, may be very reasonably disputed. However, it must be confessed, the matter is odd enough, whether we should endeavor to account for it by chance, or the effect of imagination: for my own part, though I believe no man hath less faith in these matters, yet I shall wait with some impatience, and not without some expectation, the fulfilling of Mr. Bickerstaff's second prediction, that the Cardinal de Noailles is to die upon the fourth of April, and if that should be verified as exactly as this of poor Partridge, I must own I should be wholly surprised, and at a loss, and should infallibly expect the accomplishment of all the rest. It is amusing to think what a large number of persons at the time actuall. believed the accomplishment had taken place in all respects according to the relation. The wits of the time, too, among whom were Steele and Addison, supported Swift, and uniformly affirmed that Partridge had died on the day and hour predicted. The distress and vexation of Partridge himself were beyond all measure ridiculous, and he absolutely had the folly to insert the following advertisement at the close of his next year's almanac: "Whereas it has been industriously given out by Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., and others, to prevent the sale of this year's almanac, that John Partridge is dead: this may inform all his loving countrymen, that he is still living, in health; and they are knaves that reported it otherwise."1 The most interesting account, however, of the singularly comic consequences of this prediction was drawn up by the Rev. Dr. Yalden, Mr. Partridge's neighbor, of whom, as connected with this humorous affair, I will give a short account, succeeding Swift, though it be not in exact chronological order. Though Swift wrote much that ranks under poetry, yet he had none of the characteristics of a true poet-nothing of the sublime or the tender; nothing, in short, that reaches or affects the heart. "It could scarcely be expected," says a critic, "that an irreligious divine, a heartless politician, and a selfish lover, could possess the elements of true poetry; and, therefore, Swift may be considered rather as a rhymer than a poet." This is true; as he himself says in the "Verses on his own Death:" "The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme" This "knack" he had in a very eminent degree-the "knack" of writing easy, natural rhymes-of using just the very words in verse that any one would select as the best in prose. In proof of which, take the following se lection: BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, It happen'd on a winter night, Our wandering saints, in woful state, 1 Drake's Essays, vol. i. p. 64. Having through all the village pass'd, Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft ; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher; Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist, In vain; for a superior force, A wooden Jack, which had almost 443 The flier, though 't had leaden feet, A bedstead of the antique mode, The cottage by such feats as these He spoke, and presently he feels 1 The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob. But, being old, continued just As thread-bare, and as full of dust. Thus happy in their change of life They went by chance, amidst their talk, When Baucis hastily cried out, My dear, I see your forehead sprout! Sprout! quoth the man; what's this you tell us? I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks, I feel it true; Description would but tire my muse; |